Chapter Text
We place a living cat into a steel chamber, along with a device containing a vial of hydrocyanic acid. There is, in the chamber, a very small amount of a radioactive substance. If even a single atom of the substance decays… a hammer will break the vial and kill the cat.
The scientist observing cannot know whether or not the radioactive substance has decayed and so cannot know if the cat has been killed. Therefore the cat is both dead and alive, according to quantum law. It is only when we break open the box that the cat becomes one or the other, dead or alive.
– “The Observer’s Paradox”, Erwin Schrodinger, 1935
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Rodimus tapped the substance again. It gave way, just a little, beneath his steely finger. When he pulled away, his digit was coated in a luminous slime; in the half-light of the Global Space Bridge, the residue glowed neon yellow.
“Gross,” he breathed.
“True. But, at the same time, it is a glorious natural indicator of our predicament.”
Usually, the voice would make him reach for his missile launcher. At such close range, it would make him fear for his life. Circumstances were different than the usual, however, so Rodimus just shrugged.
“How do you figure that, Predacon?”
An olive grey muzzle pushed past his shoulder and hovered just above the oily lightshow. Delicate olfactory circuits sniffed at it, taking in its pungent aroma. The dinosaur chuckled softly; the sound was almost nostalgic.
“Your ingenious bridge is not entirely of this world,” Predacon shook his head. “No. I’m somewhat disappointed. Still, it remains a remarkable achievement which I am glad to have acquired for the True Path’s cause.
“In answer to your question, Rodimus, this is a plant. A very special one – the bolphunga. It grows on a distant world that is rich in minerals but very, very low in oxygen. I’d wager your Build Team visited the spot to get the supplies it needed for this very tunnel system.”
Predacon coughed, then continued. “The bolphunga flourishes in that inhospitable place, but lies dormant in air-rich environments. Its presence here would suggest spores clung to the Build Team and migrated here to Earth. That it would flourish at this time indicates just how low our oxygen level has become.”
Rodimus – weak not from lack of air, but Energon – regarded his foe. “I never picked you for the type of mech who’d stop and smell the bolphunga,” he quipped.
The Transmetal smirked. “Xenobotany was… a hobby of mine,” he wheezed. “A lifetime or so ago. Yes.”
Both fell silent. There was little to say. Predacon struggled to breathe; Rodimus struggled with his guilt.
We were so determined to take them out, he thought miserably. Sure, we had to take away their advantage – the rapid self-repairing abilities given by their technorganic natures. And, yes, we could never have predicted us being trapped here, inside the Global Space Bridge, with a rapidly depleting oxygen supply. But those two things have combined, now, into a great big mess. Instead of incapacitating the Terrorcons, we’re going to be responsible for killing them. An entirely new form of life… disgusting though it may be… gone in one fell swoop. Our fault.
Not for the first time, the young cavalier wished Ultra Magnus was with them – and wondered where his leader had gone. He rushed off, muttering something about Snarl, Rodimus thought. But that was hours ago. I hope he’s all right.
"You’re very quiet, Autobot,” Predacon whispered.
“Not much to say, Terrorcon,” Rodimus mumbled. He wiped lubricant from his face, trying in vain to stop it trickling into his optics. His hands were shaking.
“Ah. No, I suppose not. Especially not in this situation.” The saurian sat down heavily, resting back on the tunnel wall and squelching the bolphunga. “I’ll admit I’m surprised. Yes. I’d have thought you Autobots have faced death enough times to be able to laugh in the face of the reaper.”
“Our own deaths? Definitely. Causing the deaths of others? Not so much.”
“The essential difference between our species,” Predacon sighed. “Defined, here, in a tunnel being rapidly drained of its resources. A war in microcosm. How utterly droll.”
They were silent again for a time. Rodimus found himself looking down the tunnel… past the suffocating Terrorcons and lethargic, Energon-starved Autobots… and trying to pierce the inky void beyond. “Do you think they’ll make it?”
Predacon coughed wetly. “The plan is sound, the choice of warriors makes sense,” he rasped. “Sky Shadow is the least organic of the followers I have present – a necessity given his need to operate in high altitudes. He is… oxygen efficient, you might say. And your mech, Downshift…” He chuckled again. “That one is full of surprises.”
That’s an understatement, Rodimus groused. The engineer had surprised them all with his revelations.
First, he’d explained their predicament. The GSB sealed off only in the event of a massive catastrophe – meaning the world above them was in a less than pleasant state, and they had no access to Energon. In addition, the tunnels would lose their oxygen – damning the Terrorcons to suffocation. Weakened, as they were, by hours of battle, none of them would survive long.
“But I might have a solution,” Downshift had said, the displays on either side of his head twinkling. “Provided I can make it down to the core, that is. The Build Team had the foresight to place a secondary control system inside the GSB, in case of this sort of incident. Down really deep, safe from radiation. I throw a couple of switches, trip a few levers and we should be out before anyone drops into stasis lock.”
Armourhide had, as usual, been pessimistic. “And just how are you gonna do dat, when we’re all runnin’ on fumes here?” he’d demanded, his whole body jittering with energy deprivation.
Downshift had toed the ground uncomfortably. “I’ve got plenty of power,” he’d finally admitted. “I’ve got two back-up Energon tanks in this chassis – one in each leg. That should be enough to get me there and back…”
“Two tanks? Sweet Primus!” Armourhide had roared. “How much else ya got goin’ on under there, grater face? Huh?” He’d stormed across and jabbed a stubby finger at the engineer. “You tell us you’re making yourself into Frankenstein’s monster to improve the race, but I’m thinkin’ yer setting yerself up as the ultimate survivor of this little war, irrespective o’ who gets slagged along the way!”
Rodimus and Jazz had stepped in at that moment, all but dragging the infuriated commando away. Scattorshot, their de facto leader, had approved Downshift’s plan of attack – and not disguised his discomfort over the number of secrets being kept. Predacon had spoken up about a Terrorcon presence, Sky Shadow had volunteered – being a “fellow scientist” – and the rest, as they say, was history.
“It’d be nice if there were no more surprises,” Rodimus muttered.
Predacon ground his teeth together. “A foolish hope,” he hissed.
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“How do you figure that?”
“His theory meshes well with the Path. An animal whose existence is dependant upon machinery… machinery whose purpose is defined by its affect on the animal… infinite possibilities that, when examined closely, collapse into one unassailable truth.” He coughed, the action shaking his entire chassis. “It is almost technorganic, in its own way.”
“Mm,” Downshift grunted.
The engineer had been frustratingly silent for much of their trip. He’d insisted upon remaining in his alternate mode – an emerald green muscle car – so he could “use his headlights”. Aside from a brief discussion of Schrodinger and his doomed feline, Downshift had rebuffed any attempts at conversation and driven on, forcing the jet to stride quickly if he wanted to keep pace.
None of which meshed with Sky Shadow’s needs. He’d made the Autobot an offer… extended an olive branch of peace and co-operation… that would cost his life, were Predacon to discover his duplicity.
The dinosaur’s aid had been a boon, certainly, to his research. Self-mutilation had proved the most effective method of crossing the thresh hold between the worlds of life and death, but it was bad for his long-term health. Embracing the Transmetal process, meanwhile, had been as Predacon promised years before…
“Your attempts at contacting the Sparks of the deceased have been… stymied… at every turn because you can’t transcend the limitations of metal. I have done just that, yes. And so have my followers. The True Path leads to enlightenment, Sky Shadow… a higher plane of existence. Surely, your science and mine could combine to carry you that final step to… your dearly departed?”
Taking on flesh had provided a better solution. Sky Shadow could torture his organic wings to the point of death, ride the resultant synaptic wave and leave his vital systems unaffected. The Path had allowed him to take the final step toward a reunion with his old, dead friend, Overcast.
Toward the reunion… but not over the River Styx. Even Predacon’s assistance floundered at the pivotal moment. Sky Shadow had vowed, a decade earlier, that outside concerns would not interfere with his goals. Allegiance to the True Path was one such outside concern – it held no great import for him. If betraying his colleagues would give him just one more moment with Overcast, any and all consequences would be worthwhile.
And so he’d approached Downshift – a being who had installed within himself a receptacle for souls, such was his obsession with preserving life. Sky Shadow knew, only too well, the torment that powered Downshift’s Spark; that spurred him into ever more paranoid research and invention. He wanted use of that manic energy, time to combine it with his esoteric knowledge and develop a way to bring Overcast back to the corporeal world. He’d taken the ultimate risk by handing over the cylinder – a gesture that could not be withdrawn.
Downshift had yet to respond.
Time, for Sky Shadow, was running out. His internal systems spoke of critical failure; of cellular death corrupting delicate circuitry. The relationship between a Transmetal and its flesh was symbiotic – one could not survive without the other. And while he required less oxygen than his brethren, Sky Shadow had also abused his organic components far more. They had been weakened long before the battle, his bat-like wings, and would claim his Spark if they died.
He could ill afford that, though it would mean a reunion with Overcast. He believed in an afterlife, but Sky Shadow had no wish to be part of it. His goal was to bring the dead back to life, not join their ranks.
“I’m starting to think Schrodinger was wrong,” Downshift said suddenly.
“Yes?” Sky Shadow replied.
“Well, he said the cat in the box is both alive and dead until someone takes a peep,” the car continued. “That’s all well and good for him – he’s on the outside, he’s the one who gets to take a peep. He’s not the cat breathing poison gas.
“It might be a paradox, but only for the observer. He’s got infinite quantum possibilities waiting to collapse. All the cat’s got are four walls, a floor, a ceiling and a 50/50 chance of suffocating. It’s either going to vomit blood or wait nervously to die. Either way, the little animal’s screwed permanently.”
“And you know all this because?”
Downshift snorted. “Look around you, Sky Shadow. Right now, we’re all cats.”
-----
“If Jazz’s flamethrower was still working, I’d torch your buggy skid plate and save us all some audio feedback,” Armourhide snapped. “Just suffocate quietly, will ya?”
Rodimus, listening from some distance away, shook his head. “No situation,” he muttered, “is so bad that Armourhide’s attitude can’t make it worse.”
“Insecticon is little better,” Predacon growled. He’d transformed to robot mode and sat back against the wall. The bolphunga had been squelched. The zealot’s clawed toes tapped out a staccato beat on the bitumen. “For a time, I harboured the belief he was some kind of double agent. The sort of mech who’d feed information to you Autobots in an effort to frustrate my plans.” He sighed loudly. “But that was not the case, no. Our time on Earth, spent undetected, is proof of that. If my six-legged student is whispering to others, they bear not your… red mask.”
The shivering cavalier thought about that for a moment. “Just how long have you been here? I mean, we’ve been working behind the scenes for a decade. You?”
Predacon laughed breathily. “An utterly transparent attempt to use our alliance of convenience as a means of gleaning information from an enemy commander. It was lacking in subtlety, but a deception nonetheless. I approve, Autobot. Yes.” He shook his head. “But you’ll glean nothing from me.”
Rodimus shrugged. “Worth a try, eh?”
Voices, raised in anger, caught their attention. Armourhide had flipped Insecticon over and was punching his fragile underbelly. A frail-looking Skid-Z was feebly trying to prise him off.
Again, Predacon sighed. “Wreckloose will be the first to die,” he said sadly, pointing toward the centre of the road. The moose lizard was lying there, gasping desperately, gratefully accepting breaths of air from Battle Ravage’s lungs. “More so than any of my other students, he has embraced the Path. Most of his body is comprised of savage predator’s flesh, to the point where he is more cybernetic than technorganic. A truly noble individual.”
The Autobot hung his head, feeling guilty once more. “We never came here with the intention of annihilating you,” he said.
“It’s nice that you’d think that,” Predacon replied. “The truth, however, is much different. Yes. All races fear that which is beyond their understanding. In their feeble-minded attempts to categorise the new, they decry it as evil… or grotesque. Much like you and the bolphunga earlier.”
Rodimus winced.
“Your goal was to eradicate the ‘organic infestation’ that had besmirched your tunnels, whatever your stated intentions. Your weapons prove this, if nothing else. Either you completely fail to understand an organic creature’s need for air, or you are willing to exploit that quality to its fatal conclusion. The Autobot Earthforce is either ignorant or callous, and neither is an admirable trait for supposed heroes.”
He lifted his arm and pointed his tail whip at the scuffling Transformers. The weapon straightened, went rigid, and glowed with purple light. A second later, a laser burst erupted from its clawed tip and detonated by the combatants, leaving them dumbfounded.
“Sit. Down.” Predacon sneered.
They did as they were told, muttering angrily to themselves. No one stopped to turn Insecticon back over.
“Dude, that little stunt just burned up some of your air,” Jazz admonished. He was sitting on the other side of the tunnel, and leaning on one of the support arches. The covert operative had his arms wrapped tightly around his chest plate and was rocking back and forth, teeth chattering.
“Not as much air as that rabble was wasting with their fighting,” Predacon replied.
Tiny footsteps echoed through the area as Scattorshot staggered toward them. “It might not occur to a ‘con such as yerself,” the diminutive mech drawled, “but there ‘r better t’ calm squabblin’ troops than loosin’ a round o’ plasma in their faces.”
Predacon merely grinned. “You lead your way, Scattorshot, and I’ll lead mine,” he said pleasantly. “This is an alliance, not a total ceding of command. Nor a surrender.”
Scattorshot threw up his hands. “You just cain’t win with Terrorcons.”
“I’ll hold you to that, when the war resumes,” Predacon leered. “Speaking of temporary victories… how fares your prisoner, Divebomb? No major problems with his incarceration, I trust?”
Rodimus and Scattorshot swapped ill glances. “We left him alone with Snarl and Koji,” the cavalier said over the inter-Autobot radio.
“ ’Cept Snarl ain’t there no more, accordin’ to Magnus,” Scattorshot added. “Meanin’ we left th’ base and th’ mist dangerous prisoner we’ve had since Tidal Wave in th’ care of a nine-year-old kid.”
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Koji was lying flat on his stomach, on his bed, and staring at the wall. His arms were crossed over his pillow, his head propped atop them. Every now and again he’d kick his feet, hard enough to slip his shoes over his ankles but not so rigorously that his footwear would fall off. His mum had called it his “thinking pose” and he hadn’t disagreed. Many a school assignment and problematic video game had been completed thanks to a short break and sliding shoes.
The old ways weren’t about to help with this problem. He’d screwed up, big time. In trusting Snarl, Koji had unleashed a crazy man… sorry, mech… on the outside world. Ultra Magnus had been pissed about it and sent the boy to his room. Koji hadn’t moved for fear of the giant’s return. But that had been hours ago, and the massive base was deathly silent.
Save for the cackling noise floating up the elevator shaft.
He wanted to go and investigate, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Though it was highly unlikely he could increase his mistake, a slim chance was still a chance.
Then again… The noise was probably coming from the cell block. The cell block was home to a prisoner. The prisoner was Divebomb. Divebomb was a Terrorcon. The Terrorcons had kidnapped Koji’s parents. And Divebomb likely knew where they were.
Koji furrowed his brow. Magnus could be as angry as he liked. Snarl could be as tricky as he wanted. Neither was particularly interested in locating Joshua and Misha Jones. If his parents were to ever be rescued, he’d have to take action himself.
He flipped around on the bed, pulled his shoes on properly and tightened the laces. On his way through the human-sized living quarters, Koji grabbed a kitchen chair and dragged it along behind. He’d need to stand on it in order to reach the elevator controls and ride down to the detention block.
Besides… he wanted to be comfortable while he and Divebomb had their little chat.
-----
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know,” Jazz said. His desperation was obvious. “Scattorshot, we gotta get back to the base, and now. Snarl’s already managed to get out of there somehow… if Divebomb busts out too, Koji’s done for!”
Rodimus looked down at their commanding officer. Before the Autobots had gathered for this little confab, the smaller mech had shared a suspicion or two with the cavalier. Dark, unpleasant suspicions. Divebomb, he’d felt, was already out – likely released by Snarl, who was some kind of deep-cover Terrorcon agent. It was likely the kid was already dead. But telling Jazz that would emotionally cripple the covert-ops specialist, and so Rodimus had agreed to keep it quiet.
“Don’t pop yer rivets, Jazz,” Scattorshot said, spreading his hands to placate the black Bugatti. “The truth o’ the matter is we’re stuck, whether we like it or not. We gotta focus on what we can do, here and now, to survive. Otherwise we ain’t no good to Koji nor anyone else. Okay?”
Jazz’s optics darkened behind his visor. “Quit patronising me, Scattorshot,” he yelled, shoving his colleague with both hands. “I don’t need none o’ your sympathy, hear? I’m the mech who wrote the damn datatrack on stayin’ mission-focused, all right? An’ I was runnin’ whole outfits – covert outfits, might I add – before you got yo’ fancy Force Chip and new eyeballs. You ain’t got to be telling me how to stay on the job, little mech. Truth is, if it weren’t for yo’ boy Magnus, I’d be 2IC in these parts… ‘specially if Optimus were here. He’d want his go-to guy to be the reigning expert on the local surrounds. So watch yo’self.”
Scattorshot bristled. His whole body tensed and was surrounded by a glowing blue nimbus. Rodimus laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, seeking to calm him, but it was pushed away brusquely.
“You questionin’ me, soldier?” Scattorshot rumbled, sounding just like Magnus.
“Better than that,” Jazz growled, leaning right down into his face. “I’m questioning your right to pretend to be our leader!”
The glow around Scattorshot grew brighter – his Force Chip was seconds away from manifesting. Obviously, its power came from somewhere other than the chassis of its owner. Panels flew from Jazz’s shoulders as his missile launchers locked into place and tried to power up.
“Cripes,” Armourhide exclaimed. “T’ings ain’t dat bad, guys!”
The commando grabbed Jazz around the waist and heaved. Rodimus pulled Scattorshot back. “What the frell’s gotten into the bot of you?” he demanded. “Are you both so low on Energon that your processors have stopped spinning?”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than he felt light-headed. It was as if all the Energon had been sucked from his frame, out his feet, and allowed to bleed off into the atmosphere.
“Rodimus?” Armourhide’s voice was distorted, as if he was slurring. The cavalier realised it was his audio sensors, not his friend’s synthesiser, that was the problem.
“Don’t… feel so good,” he managed to gasp.
The others forgot their argument and pushed forward to catch him. Rodimus saw Predacon draw in close, trying to see between the crowd of Autobot bodies. His last visual image, as the world went dark, was of the dinosaur’s glowing red eyes.